


Marii

by bethfrish



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-01
Updated: 2005-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-24 02:18:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethfrish/pseuds/bethfrish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am he as you are he as you are me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marii

Prouvaire's hair, soft like velvet, shredded and pressed up into his scalp like someone tied it there, threaded through little needle-eyed posts and knotted in elaborate bows. Thick and soft and silver where the light hits it. Bright, white, colorless, smells like silver too, he thinks, runs his hands through it. Sharp and tangy like blood; he pricks his fingers on the pins sticking out of his head.

Combeferre, the name like the blade he uses to shave in the morning slices through his lips, cuts the corners of his mouth into two halves of an X. He twists the blade with his tongue, twirls it in his mouth and spits it out between Combeferre's eyes, Bahorel's eyes. Too light. Too many flecks of brown not dark enough, little muddy puddles in the stone where the children play in the rain. 

Joly is too lanky, too tall by the gap between his fingers when he pinches his earlobe. He wants to take his heels in the palm of his hand and shave the skin off the bottoms where they're rough and calloused, rub and cut and slice until footprints line the floor like slices of bread. 

The sky is falling in the reflection in Feuilly's eyes, blue burning his retinas into the blackness where he blinks. His stare is vacant, vapid, loses track of whether he's watching the stare or the reflection in it. Wrong wrong wrong, and not allowed to talk because his voice is too low, plucks it from his throat. 

Bossuet is clumsy and ungraceful; Courfeyrac takes his head and cracks it on the bedpost, pointing to the blood where it dances uninterrupted down his forehead. It moves and settles into the hollows of his eye sockets, divinely inspired. 

I won't play your game, Enjolras says, and the words take aim at the sore spot in his chest like worms have been at it. The disgust prods at him, seeps between his lips—that disgusting taste; Grantaire never stood a chance—grabs him by the hair and leers at him. 

_Courfeyrac_ they weep when they come, unified in his head as one snake coiled around his feet; he pets their hair and sends them on their way before the sun rises. 

This is wrong and you are sick, echoes in his mouth, against the palms of his hands with Enjolras' bitter inflection. He coils the viper around Enjolras' throat until red sprouts from the pores in his scalp, and blond changes to black and curls with saturation. 

marius marius marius marius marius 

Courfeyrac sits in front of his mirror and waits for his irises to darken, staring staring staring, his nails spoiled from the crescents he's digging into the palms of his hands.


End file.
